


we can make our own view

by beverytender



Series: Arya x Gendry Week 2018 [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AryaxGendry Week, Established Relationship, F/M, The Mummy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beverytender/pseuds/beverytender
Summary: For all his worrying, he never once asked her to stop.





	we can make our own view

**Author's Note:**

> I might come back to each of the little 'verses I've created so far in this week, but this is the one I might come back to the most.

“You don’t think that’s a sign? Really?” The wording itself is incredulous, his tone edging on irritated - if you don’t know him as well as she does, anyways - but his eyes are all concern, and it makes her feel warm despite herself.

She can’t blame him. She’s been giving him reason to be concerned since they met, more or less, but she can’t help remembering every bit of it - well, most bits of it at least - fondly. Sure, raising the Night King while they were searching for traces of the Wall had been unintentional and, hm… chaotic, but still. What an adventure. And how could she regret it, when she had him at the end of it? And after all, the world hadn’t ended, so. Sometimes she thought he didn’t give that fact enough weight.

“Of course not. Probably just the roots of the tree weakened the structural integrity of the chamber.” Honestly, it wasn’t like anything that bad had happened. So they went for a bit of a surprise swim in an admittedly not particularly nice smelling swamp. “Nothing a bath won’t fix.”

“Arya.”

“You worry too much, husband.” Not the fairest move in the book, but he was almost always more agreeable when she reminded him that she’d married him.

“Arya.”

“Yes, dear?”

She could practically feel him rolling his eyes. “When has it ever been a simple coincidence like that?”

Like she’d even answer that, when it did so much more for his argument than hers. “If it had been some type of medieval security measure, surely it would’ve happened before I got a look at the map to the where the Isle of Faces used to be,” she reasoned.

“Please tell me you don’t remember it.”

“I would not lie to you.”

He took a deep breath, and then another, and, sympathetic, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. For all his worrying, he never once asked her to stop, even though she knew he wanted to, even though she had been unable to explain to him why she felt like she couldn’t.

She wasn’t entirely sure she understood herself. A moon ago, they were taking a break from travelling, settling into their home, and she had really been content, happy, to just linger, bask in the calm of having nothing really of import to do all day.

(Except him.)

She’d expected another couple weeks at least before it started to get a bit stale, and then she had the bizarrest, most compelling dream. She’d never had a dream like it, somehow an observer and a participant all at once, watching while she and two of her brothers - or people who looked exactly like them, if they’d lived hundreds of years ago, received a dire message from the Children of the Forest. A year and a half ago, she would’ve dismissed it outright as a fever dream or perhaps something she ate. A year and a half ago, she’d have gone on about how there was absolutely no proof whatsoever that the Children had been anything other than a particularly detailed legend. 

A lot had changed in a year and a half.

The dream had repeated, entirely unchanged, for the next four nights, until she’d finally told it to Gendry and he’d looked at her and said, “Fine. Where are we going first?”

It was so lovely to be understood.

She was aware he’d have rather they both stayed at home, and that right this minute he’d rather this was the end of it, but he said none of that, he never would. For that, she could only - somehow - love him more.

“One night in a real bed and then we’ll be off, how about that?” A consolation prize, but she’d make it a good one.

“Off to where this time?”

“The Riverlands.”

“Least it won’t be cold.”

“There you are, silver lining.”

“Mm.”

 

“I love you, you know.” She said, rather more serious, looking up at him, and he smiled.

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Is it possible, do you think…” He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “To talk you into two nights in a real bed?”

“Mm, perhaps. Not by talking, though.”


End file.
